


The Confidant

by octarines (orphan_account)



Category: Fabula Nova Crystallis: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, in which ignis is a badass hitman, major glove appreciation, with a complicated past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/octarines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ignis-centric.  Pre-FFXV.  Alternate Reality</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Confidant

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Transporter mostly.

The gloves are one of two things he has from his old life.  They’re behemoth leather, made to last.  Fit like a second skin.  People notice them before anything else.  Especially in this summer heat.  He tells them he has a ‘condition’. 

What he doesn't tell them is how hard it is to keep it free of blood stains.  Or how they give him a secure grip on the Beretta BU9 Nano he's got hidden beneath his sleeve.  He rarely takes them off.

He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel while he waits for his contact to show.  The car is a stolen second-hand 3 series BMW that looks like it’s seen better days.  It's a faded monaco blue.  There’s a tiny dent in the side that he’ll never know the story behind, and scratches. Scratches everywhere.  Hooligans, maybe—it’s a rough neighborhood he’s in—it doesn’t bother him. 

Still his kind of car, though.  It’s hideous and outdated; the kind of car no one would stop to look at twice. Not even the hookers out on the street.  An invisible car.   As soon as his meeting with the man in the pinstriped suit is over he’ll dump it for another one. 

Half an hour after the sun goes down, someone taps at the window.  He unlocks the passenger side door and the man slides in.  Same pinstriped suit.  From a briefcase he’s handed a thick envelope full of cash, and while he counts, the man plays with the bobble-head dog on the dashboard. He's been instructed to call him 'Horace'. Only the very brave or very stupid use their real names in this business.

“Any problems?” Horace asks.  His eyes are on the welt on his temple. There’s a smile on his face. 

That’s how he knows: this wasn’t just  _any_ hit.

He pockets the cash before he answers.  “This one was different,” he acknowledges quietly.  You hear an accent when he speaks, but it’s deliberate.  He uses a different one every time they meet.  To keep Horace from digging into his background. To keep himself one step ahead.

“Different how?”

“He was trained.”  _Ex-military, like me,_ he doesn’t say aloud _._   All the man needs is an invitation.

Another smile. 

Two more envelopes.  He doesn't open the thicker one; he knows it's full of money.

“Your next assignment,” is the explanation he gets when he takes a look through the file.

Twenty seconds later he immediately understands why his contact is smiling so goddamn much.  “You want me to take his place,” he realizes.

“The Lucis Government doesn’t take just  _anyone_ ,” Horace grins.  His teeth are white and perfect. “Everything else you’ll need is in the boot. Dental, blood work, fingerprints. Your job interview is on Wednesday."  He pauses, studying his face critically. "Leonis has zero tolerance for scruffiness.  Lose the beard. When's the last time you had a haircut?  Do you ever take off those gloves?"

He turns a page, ignoring all of that.  "What else?"

"I want you to use your real accent” he adds, sly.

It doesn't faze him. “How much?” 

“2 million gil.”

 _That_  does.  

Horace laughs. It almost sounds genuine.  "There's an airship ticket and 50 grand in there to get you started," he says. "Do us both a favour and find a nice apartment in a respectable neighborhood.  No more motels. You'll stick out like a sore thumb."

“And the target?” He doesn't like to stray off topic.  Horace has an annoying habit of doing that.

"No target." Horace produces a passport-sized photograph from his coat pocket and gives it to him.  To the ignorant it's just a lanky black-haired delinquent,  _about seventeen_ , he guesses, scaling the side of a high rise building with another boy. 

 _But definitely worth the 2 million gil_.  

"You're going to be protecting this time" Horace says.  "You remember how to do  _that_ , don't you?"  

While he frowns, wondering how he could have  _possibly_  slipped up, Horace gives one final smile and a wink.  “We’ll be in touch.”

And then he’s gone. 

He starts rehearsing as he pulls out of the parking lot.  "My name is Ignis Stupeo Scientia..." he tries a different accent "my name _is_ Ignis Stupeo Scientia"

and another.

and another.  

###

It’s just a skeleton crew working at the hospital when he visits, and he shouldn’t be allowed to visit but a 1000 gil can make anyone turn a blind eye.

_Can 2 million make cancer do the same?_

She’s barely recognizable: a ravaged skeleton of a woman hooked up to an array of cold machinery thanks to the crystal’s radiation but even through the pain she always smiles and opens her eyes when he enters. He takes off his gloves, takes her face in his hands and gently kisses her cheeks and forehead.  She giggles as he does it, and it makes him smile. She’s the one other memento of his old life.  And like the gloves she is irreplaceable. 

“How’d it go?” Her voice is a whisper of a whisper.  Her eyes are half-closed, dreamy.  She’s beautiful. 

“I got the part,” he tells her, thinking of the bottom of Lake Garda where the body is buried. 

She pulls off his glasses, and then touches his face, letting her fingers skim across his jawline. He can’t help but lean in closer.  “You shaved,” she says. 

“I did.”

“And you cut your hair.”

“For my new role,” he explains. 

She kisses him in the corner of his mouth and then full on the lips. “I like it.” 

“I thought you might,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her.  She’s lost a lot more weight from the last time he’s held her, but he doesn’t comment on it. They both know it's an uphill battle but she’s still here; she’s still fighting. 

_And I’ll do the same._

_"_ When will you be back?"

"Soon," he promises. 

###

Lights, camera, action.  

He drops the accent when the interview comes around, because he sees Horace amongst the panel of officials.  Horace drops his pen in shock. Ignis hides a smile and rests his gloved hands on the table.

_And now for the encore..._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you pick up on why his name's Horace, you win at life in my books and have earned a slice of internet pizza :)


End file.
